this peculiar place where hope is not for fools
by wild wolf free17
Summary: The ex-Winter Soldier is adopted by two civilians. The result is heartbreaking fluff.
1. Night 1

Title: this peculiar place where hope is not for fools

Disclaimer: the narrator isn't mine; title from Matilyn Singer

Warnings: post-Cap 2 by a few months; references, of course, to torture/trauma/brainwashing/violence; past child abuse; references to past rape

Pairings: OFC/OFC, Steve/Bucky

Rating: PG

Wordcount: WIP

Point of view: third

Prompt: any, any, Neverwinter

Note: on A03, there are links to certain things sprinkled throughout the texts. alas, that cannot be done here. I'll tell you, this, though - the OCs are cast as Octavia Spencer and Melissa Ponzio.

* * *

><p>He breathes.<p>

_He_ breathes. He _breathes_.

"Hey, sweetie, you okay?" he hears. The speaker does not come closer. "Only, you look kinda fucked. You in that mess downtown?"

'That mess downtown' being another Hydra safehouse torn apart by Hydra's greatest weapon.

He does not say, "I am functional." He does not say, "I am unharmed."

He says, "'m'fine," and huddles deeper into the stolen coat, against the dirty wall.

"Yeah, I'm doubtin' that," the speaker says. He peers out of the coat to see a dark-skinned woman pantomiming something to a Hispanic woman before the dark-skinned woman crouches down.

It is snowing lightly. He has learned over the past months that he hates the cold. He cannot return to where he had stored all of his supplies because two people escaped the Hydra safehouse. He examines both women carefully but they are not Hydra. He would know.

"Look, honey," the crouching woman says while the one still standing rolls her eyes, "you could use some help, right? It's gonna be cold tonight."

He flinches. He cannot control it.

"Yeah, it's awful," she says. She sounds… gentle. Like the way that civilian from two states ago talked to the dog whining in the road. He had watched the man convince the dog to hobble to his car and then followed as the man brought the dog to a clinic and carried the whimpering animal in. He stayed until the man left, carrying the dog (with a cast on its left hind leg) and promising it a good, lazy life. Gentle.

No one in his memory has spoken to him _gently_.

"There's a shelter I know of," the woman says. "Will you let me take you there?"

He has been in three shelters. They are too loud. Too many smells. Too many people he could hurt, who could –

He closes his eyes to avoid the woman's eyes and says, "No." His voice trembles. His body.

"Alright, honey, that's fine," she says soothingly. "But I can't just leave you here. I can't have you freezing to death on my conscience, you know?"

"Tai," the other woman says, "we're gonna be late, babe."

He keeps his eyes closed so he doesn't have to watch them walk away.

But the women do not walk away. "I'm Tai Jones," the one still crouching tells him. "She's Angelique Reyes. I figure you don't have anywhere to go or you'd be there. Can you tell me why you don't want to go to the shelter?"

He opens his eyes. He looks at her. "Too loud," he says. "People."

She nods. Her lips turn upward in a small smile. People don't smile at him.

"Well, how about this, then," she says. "For tonight, we bring you home with us."

"Tai!" Angelique Reyes says sharply. He knows that tone. He heard a man using it on a little girl three cities ago. His handlers and the techs used it on him.

He shifts, preparing to get between them if Angelique Reyes tries to hurt Tai Jones but Tai Jones says, "Oh, no, baby, Angel won't hurt me, I promise."

Angelique Reyes says, "What?" while his eyes widen and he shrinks back against the wall. How did she know?

"My daddy was in Vietnam," she says, rearranging herself so that she's sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. "And then my brother was in the first Iraq war. I figure you were a soldier, right?"

He flinches again. "Don't call me that," he begs, though begging has never worked, not in his memory.

"Shit," Angelique Reyes says. "Fine, fuck."

"Thank you, dear," Tai Jones says, eyes still on him. "Look, we've got a guestroom. Clean sheets. A warm shower. Lots of food."

"You don't know me," he says. "I hurt people."

Her smile is – there was a man, once. He smiled like that. He smiled at _him_ like that. "You're right," Tai Jones agrees. "I don't know you. But I'm a social worker, you see, and I can't walk away from this. There are so many times I haven't been able to help, and it burns me, deep down in my soul. But you, honey?" There are tears in her eyes. "You, even if it goes badly, I can at least get out of the cold for one night."

"I don't want to hurt people," he confesses. He's never said it before. No one was listening before.

"Come home with us," Tai Jones says. "We can plan tomorrow. Find you somewhere you wanna go."

There was a man, once. He only ever wanted to be near the man.

Angelique Reyes sighs heavily. "I'll call Nancy, let her know we won't make it. And if we wake up dead, I'm blaming you, Tai."

"We won't wake up dead," Tai Jones says, still smiling. "Will we, honey?"

He shakes his head. He does not want to hurt these women.

He _won't_ hurt these women.

"I'm gonna stand up now," Tai Jones informs him. "Can you stand?"

He breathes. He stands. He follows.

.

Tai Jones leads him to the relieving and bathing facilities, saying, "Angel's gonna get us some food, sweetie. How about you get clean while we wait?" She flicks on the light and he stares – the walls are a soft blue with bright fish swimming and he feels… at ease. Never has he felt like this. Calm.

"There you go," Tai Jones murmurs. "You know how to work a faucet?"

He nods, reaching out to touch one of the fish.

"Okay, that's good. How about you take a shower while I straighten up the guestroom for you?" Tai Jones says. He knows it's an order, but – no handler has ever sounded so warm. So kind.

He nods again and begins removing his clothing, which is torn and filthy.

"Hey, whoa, wait a minute," Tai Jones exclaims. He ceases all motion, head ducked, eyes down. He has already decided to cause no harm.

"Hey, it's alright," she says gently, the way that civilian spoke to the dog. "I just – honey, is that blood?"

There is blood on the shirt. His torso has already healed, and most of the blood had not been his. He does not look up.

Tai Jones says, "That's a neat prosthetic." He flicks the metal fingers, clenches them. His arm whirs as it resets. He hears the high-pitched whine that means something is malfunctioning but there is no one he will allow to repair it.

"Okay, honey, can you look at me?" Tai Jones asks. He lifts his gaze to her chin. "Oh, kiddo, c'mon." He meets her eyes. "There you are," she says. "I don't know who you are, or where you've been, or what happened to you. I know there's been a lot of pain and I am so sorry. But you're safe here, I promise." He drops his gaze. She sighs. "Take your shower, baby," she says. "We'll talk over dinner."

Tai Jones pulls towels from a cabinet to set them on the toilet lid and tells him, "Use the robe on the hook. I have some of my brother's clothes for you – he left 'em after his last visit. If you like, I'll wash yours."

He is still holding his shirt. He stole it five states ago, the jeans three before that. His supplies, which included five more shirts and jeans, is lost, now. His boots are the ones his handlers dressed him in for the failed mission. He has no weapons here beyond the arm and himself.

He knows an order when he hears it. He holds out the shirt; she takes it carefully and he bends to remove his boots. "Oh, sweetie," she sighs as he removes his jeans and holds them out as well. He is completely bare, as he has not been since his handlers prepped him for the failed mission.

Tai Jones says, "Take your shower, honey." Her smile – he remembers one like it, from – long long ago? A man, fragile, important. Smiled. Called him the name the target said was his, that the museum said was his.

Tai Jones, as she closes the door, says, "Wash everywhere, honey. You'll feel better."

He steps into the bathtub, pulls the curtain, examines the knobs and faucet, and turns on the water so hot it burns. He stands beneath the spray, letting the heat spread. There is soap; he utilizes it for his skin and his hair, which has grown so long as to be unwieldy. Once he has washed every part of him three times, he feels – satisfied. That is the word. Like when he once completed a mission and his handler had said, "Good job." Long long ago. He is clean but he stays under the water, tucked in, letting it flow down his back, soak in his hair. It is so _warm._

When it begins to cool, he turns it off, pulls back the curtain, and steps from the tub. He dries his skin with the towels but his hair still drips, so after he pulls on the robe, he drapes a towel across his shoulders.

The door is closed. He listens carefully: Tai Jones and Angelique Reyes are talking in Spanish and things are clinking – plates? Silverware? And something smells… good. He has been eating food retrieved from dumpsters and cans stolen from gas stations, drinking from water fountains and public access sinks. None of it has smelled pleasant. What his handlers fed him did not smell at all, and often he was hooked to bags of liquid instead of eating actual food.

He is hungry. He opens the door.

.

The food is something Tai Jones calls 'barbeque.' He sits at the place Tai Jones indicates is for him and stares at the containers – it is brown meat and thick potatoes and a sweet smell. Tai Jones holds out an empty plate and says, "Take whatever you want, honey."

He chooses the closest piece and sets it on the plate. His fingers are covered in the sauce; he wipes them with a napkin but some of the sauce drips onto Tai Jones' brother's gray pants – the softest material he can remember on his skin, except for the towels Tai Jones ordered him to use. He stares at the sauce and then as covertly as he can tries to remove it with another napkin.

"It's fine," Tai Jones says. "Don't worry about the mess, sweetie. Eat."

He eats. It tastes… pleasing.

Tai Jones and Angelique Reyes talk in English throughout the meal: he files all the data away for later review and does not respond except when Tai Jones asks, "You enjoyin' it, honey?"

"Yes," he says without looking up from his plate. When he finishes the first piece, he slowly reaches for another and when neither of them forbids it, takes the meat.

"When's the last time you ate?" Tai Jones asks.

Three days ago. But his mouth is full so he moves his shoulders in a fashion he does not understand but Tai Jones seems to because she sighs. "Alright," she says.

There is a glass of water to the right of the plate Tai Jones gave him. He is thirsty. He looks at the glass for thirty-eight seconds and then glances up at Tai Jones, who is eating beans with a fork, and Angelique Reyes who is cutting into a piece of – chicken? Chicken with a fork and a knife. They both have glasses, too, though the liquid in them is dark and bubbly. He looks back at the water.

He is thirsty. He should ask – he is to always ask the handlers before doing anything unless on a mission, when he is to correctly anticipate everything that might happen and prepare in advance a multitude of plans to follow.

There is no mission now beyond 'destroy Hydra to the utmost extent' and 'do not get captured.'

"How you doin', kiddo?" Tai Jones asks. "You full?"

He is thirsty. He carefully grabs the glass of water and drains it down.

"You want some more?" Angelique Reyes asks. It is the first time she has addressed him at all.

He says, "Yes." He wants more water. He wants more food. He wants – the man who once called him that name and was so important.

He cannot have that man. But he can have more water: Angelique Reyes stands, reaches for the empty glass, carries it into the kitchen. He cannot see but follows the actions by sound as she opens something, pours water into the glass, closes something, and comes back into the dining area, where she sets the glass in front of him.

He looks up at her as she sits back down. Her eyes are dark and she smiles at him. Not like Tai Jones, like the man. But a smile. He knows the words to say but has not ever said them.

He says them now. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replies.

.

When he no longer feels hungry, he sets his hands on his thighs and looks down at the plate. "You done?" Tai Jones asks after a moment, interrupting her conversation with Angelique Reyes about Nancy's party that they have missed.

"Yes," he says.

His body does not hurt but aches everywhere. He knows pain; currently, he does not feel it. But he is tired. He does not remember ever being awake long enough to feel tired. He thinks that is the accurate descriptor.

"You wanna rest?" Tai Jones asks.

His handlers, Hydra – they had agents who could read minds. He remembers – two times ago? Three? His handler was younger, then, but he ordered that The Telepath be brought to read the asset, to assure that everything worked properly. He remembers, in what he knows now is _his_ mind, what should be his and no one else's, he remembers hearing another's voice, "Oh, you sorry bastard, what they've done to you. It's amazing."

And The Telepath told the handler, "Completely empty, sir. Almost like I'd done it myself."

"Are you telepathic?" he asks Tai Jones now, bringing his gaze up to her chin. He doesn't want anyone in his head but him, not ever again. But. There is no way to say that, yet. He can barely think it.

"No, not really," Tai Jones says after a moment. "I can feel things, sometimes. Get a sense about what's gonna happen." She chuckles softly. "Like, tonight? We'd planned on going a different way, but I knew I had to walk down that street, even though the temperature was droppin' fast and we shoulda caught a cab."

He doesn't know how to ask if she's in his mind. He looks back down at his plate.

Tai Jones asks, "You remember where the guestroom is?" and he nods. "Okay, then. If you wanna go lay down, go ahead. It's fine. We'll talk in the morning, honey."

He shouldn't leave a mess. The plate, the glass. Witnesses to his existence. But he has chosen to cause no harm here, and she has ordered that he rest. Recharge. So he stands and leaves the room. Down the bright green hall, with pictures that he files away for later review, a dark brown carpet. The guestroom is the same shade of blue as the bathing facilities, though this time without the fish. He wishes it had fish. He… _likes_ looking at the fish.

The pants are loose enough to sleep in, as is the shirt. He does not know who the Wisconsin Badgers are, but their shirt is comfortable and soft and warm. The creature on it seems unrealistic but that does not affect the shirt's functioning.

He lies down on the bed. Shivers. There are blankets beneath him and – he glances towards the door, which he closed and locked. He rolls to the side and pulls the blanket down so that he can slide under it. He shivers again, so he undoes the next layer, as well. He does not shiver again.


	2. Morning 1

He wakes up, so he must have been asleep. Tai Jones and Angelique Reyes are speaking in Spanish in the kitchen. He listens without moving for five minutes exactly. Angelique Reyes has chosen not to go in to work. Tai Jones has emailed her assistant that she will not be in today. Their friend Nancy left a very rude voicemail early this morning, though both of them find it amusing rather than offensive.

He is warm. Only his left torso aches now. He is hungry and something smells _very _pleasing. He has never smelled something so pleasant. It makes him – _want._ He pushes the blankets off and goes to the relieving facility.

Angelique Reyes and Tai Jones murmur to each other as he finishes, washes his hands, spends 168 seconds examining fifteen of the fish on the wall, and silently walks to the kitchen. The smell strengthens; his mouth waters. Is this… desire? He wants so sharply it hurts in his – torso? Abdomen? The man who was small, _important,_ he hears, 'C'mon, Buck, we got plenty – fill your belly.' What is a belly?

"Hey, good mornin'!" Tai Jones says brightly. "Angel made cinnamon rolls. You hungry?"

"… yes?" he says, eyes on the platter on the counter.

Last night, Angelique Reyes wore dark trousers and a bright green long-sleeved blouse, with a heavy coat over it. Tai Jones wore a long red skirt, a silver blouse, and an ankle-length black coat. This morning, Tai Jones wears dark jeans and a white shirt with something labeled 'grumpy cat' while Angelique Reyes has a – apron? He remembers a woman with a _comforting_ voice saying that word. Angelique Reyes has a bright purple apron over yellow, soft-looking trousers and a black blouse. Last night, they looked – almost like handlers. This morning… they look like civilians. Kind.

"Take a seat," Tai Jones says. "It's gotta cool. You want some milk?"

His last handler once asked him that. No – multiple times.

Once, he remembers now, ducking his head, he had said _no._ The punishment for that malfunction was swift and severe and they made sure he kept it.

But that handler is dead. The televisions spoke of nothing else for five days. That handler is dead and he will allow no more punishments.

"Honey?" Tai Jones says gently.

He answers firmly, "Yes, I want milk." He lifts his head to meet her dark eyes, so unlike that handler's, for nearly three breaths before he looks back at the platter of cinnamon rolls. Steam rises. His mouth still waters.

"Well, sit on down, I'll pour you some," Tai Jones says with a smile. He obeys. His _belly_ settles. The handler is dead.

"Oh, honey, that's a beautiful smile," Tai Jones says. "There's a gorgeous guy beneath that beard, huh?" She holds out a mug of milk and he takes it, ducking his head again. He _is_ smiling. He continues smiling as he sips the milk.

He enjoys the smoothness, _savors_ it. It is cool and thick on his tongue.

"Alright, corazón, come pick your cinnamon roll and we'll eat," Angelique Reyes says. He looks from the empty mug and Angelique Reyes is smiling at him. "You're the guest," she continues. "Come choose."

He stands and carries the mug to Tai Jones. He cannot request more but Tai Jones takes the mug. "Pick your roll," she murmurs. "I'll bring your refill to you."

Angelique Reyes steps to the side, holding a plastic implement. She holds out a small plate. "Choose and I'll get it for you," she says.

He stares down at the platter. There are an even dozen of – cinnamon rolls are some kind of spiraling bread? With white icing that has partially melted. There is one in the middle that he _wants._ But when he goes to say the words, he cannot. He – the handlers give him what he is to have, and when he has stolen, no one witnessed. But he is here and they are not handlers. He chose his food last night. Why –

"It's alright, corazón," Angelique Reyes murmurs. "Choose the one you want."

He points. Angelique Reyes uses the plastic implement to scoop the cinnamon roll up and place it on the plate. He feels his muscles relax; the left arm recalibrates as he walks back to the table to sit where the mug of milk has been set. He stares at the cinnamon roll while Angelique Reyes serves two more plates. "Coffee," she tells Tai Jones, who brings both a mug of a dark, steaming liquid with a sharp smell and a glass of orange juice. Tai Jones also has three forks and she offers one to him, which he carefully takes.

Angelique Reyes sits down across from him and Tai Jones to his right. "So, I told you last night I'm a social worker," Tai Jones says. "You know what that means?"

He knows the definition of the words when they are separate, but not the meaning together. He shakes his head, eyes on his cinnamon rolls, which he is methodically unwinding.

"Alright, well, there are lots of kinds," she says. He does not look up as she continues, "I used to work at a clinic, helpin' people who had various disorders, and sometimes the police would call me for help. I run a program now, tryin' to get the word out about what mental health care actually means. Sometimes, though, I still get called in for testimony at court."

The cinnamon roll is completely unwound. He neatly slices a piece, spears it with the fork, and puts it in his mouth, where he lets it sit for a moment. Everything in his head quiets as he thinks, _The hell is this? It's amazing_. He stares down at the remaining cinnamon roll, wanting to shove the entire thing in his mouth. Instead, he cuts off another slice.

He realizes, as he steadily works his way through the rest of the roll that Tai Jones has fallen silent. He looks up; both Tai Jones and Angelique Reyes are watching him. He ceases all motion.

"No, honey, it's alright. We're just... enjoyin' your enthusiasm." Tai Jones – is not smiling. Is grinning? There is a difference but he does not recall what that difference is. Angelique Reyes is smiling brightly.

"Feel free to get another," Angelique Reyes says. "Please. The more you eat, the less there are to tempt me."

He blinks down at the plate, where only cinnamon roll crumbs remain. He can have _another._

He stands and gets another cinnamon roll.

.

Angelique Reyes is a baker; she has her own business which creates many different kinds of desserts. The business is two-fold, she explains as he unwinds his third cinnamon roll: there is a shop in Hilldale and she also has a class she teaches that is in a different city every four months. She laughs and says, "I was also on a Halloween Wars two years ago," though of course that means nothing to him.

"You know what Halloween Wars is?" Tai Jones asks.

"No," he says.

Angelique Reyes says, "It's a contest with cake decorators, pumpkin carvers, and candy makers. My team came in second." She describes sculptures of cake and sugar and pumpkin as he slowly finishes the third cinnamon roll, and though he knows (or can guess) what all the words mean, he cannot visualize any of it. "It's alright, corazón," she says. "We have it saved to the DVR; I can show you, later."

He sets down his fork. They are both looking at him; Angelique Reyes turns her head to look at Tai Jones. "I'll go clean the mess up," she says. "Let the two'a you talk."

"Thank you, Angel," Tai Jones says. Angelique Reyes stands, gathers up all three plates and forks, and goes to the kitchen.

He looks down at his hands, both resting on the table, palms down. He shivers.

"So, you know about us, now, a little," Tai Jones finally says, that gentle tone that civilians use for dogs. Before last night, it had never been used for him.

No. Didn't the target… _Oh, god, Bucky. I thought you were dead._

No. That would not have – it never happened. The target was a target. Now, the target is the only person whose life he has ever preserved instead of exterminating.

"Honey? You here with me?" Tai Jones asks.

He blinks. "Yes," he answers.

"Okay, that's good. Can you tell me anything about yourself? I know you don't want to hurt people. You know how to work faucets. You like barbeque and love cinnamon rolls. You have a very expensive prosthetic, which tells me quite a few things." He lifts his gaze to her mouth, which is smiling. Again. Still. Does she ever not smile?

"Do you know what your arm tells me, sweetie?"

"No," he says quietly.

"It tells me that at some point you must've had money, or underwent experimental treatment – which, since you were a fighter, once, could've been part of your service." He gazes back at his hands; his thumbs are touching. He can only feel the touch on the right side. "You were valuable. That you're now on the street, that tells me more things."

On missions, he knows what to do, what to say. Here, he is – confused. He does not like it.

"Do you know your name?" Tai Jones asks.

He could say, "Winter Soldier." He could say, "The Asset." He could say, "James Buchanan Barnes." The target called him, "Bucky" like there was nothing more important in the world. In his memories, the small man calls him, "Bucky" and "Buck" and "Jerk" and sometimes, "Sweetheart." He thinks that might a dream, though. Not a – a memory.

"Why do you want my name?" he dares to question. His fingers dig into the table; the arm tries to reset. He can feel his muscles trembling and his belly hurts.

"Unless you wanna tell me, I don't want to know," Tai Jones says. "But I'd like to know that you know."

"Yes," he says firmly. "I know."

"Okay, that's good," Tai Jones says. "Now, do you know what you want?"

… want? Warm showers. The small man who was once so important. Hydra in pieces and burnt to ash. Cinnamon rolls. The fish on every wall. The man who called him by _that_ name.

"… yes?" he answers.

Tai Jones sighs. "Is there anywhere that you can go to stay out of the cold?"

His hiding place is no longer secure. His supplies are gone. There is no small man waiting at home with food and body contact. His handlers had body contact with him like that sometimes, but he knows that – the small man was good, like Tai Jones is good. His handlers were… not. Not good. They hurt. They used him to hurt others. They used…

His body is trembling. Tai Jones is speaking – but there is only darkness and –

.

He wakes up. He is huddled in the corner of the dining room and Tai Jones is sitting cross-legged out of reach. He could still reach her easily, of course. Kill her in a blink, go to Angelique Reyes, who is sitting further away. Kill their neighbors. Kill everyone on the block.

_He does not want to._

He breathes.

"You back with us, honey?" Tai Jones asks.

"Yes," he says. She had asked a question. He did not answer. Instead he –

He remembers what he remembered and he turns away from the thought. He says, "I want a warm shower" and raises his gaze enough to see Tai Jones – grinning. Yes. It is not a smile, but it is not _not_ a smile either, and he once knew… so many things he does not know now. But he will learn. Because he is – not the asset. Not Bucky, either. And he does not like the way Barnes sounds in his head. He once slept in a barn for three consecutive days and nights, waiting for his handlers to extract him. He had a shattered leg. Three shattered ribs that healed before the extraction. He kept calling for – the small man. The small man did not come. But his handlers heard.

"Well, then, go take a shower," Tai Jones says.

He stands and carefully walks around them. In the doorway to the hall, he pauses. His right hand is clenched. The arm resets. His body is trembling but his breath is steady.

"My name," he says, "is James." Before he has to face either of their reactions, he hurries to the bathing facility, where he rests his forehead on the brightest fish and breathes and breathes and breathes.

Angelique Reyes and Tai Jones are speaking in Spanish; he hears but does not listen. He steps away from the wall, strips off the soft trousers and soft shirt, and turns on the water as hot as it will go.


End file.
